“Anything important in the letter?” Martin asked.

  “It’s from my brother,” Boudica replied. “Strange things are happening from the sounds of it. I’m afraid the church might become involved.”

  Without asking for permission, he picked up the letter and began to read.

  My Dearest Boudica,

  I hope this letter finds you well.

  Connor has at last made his proposal for Bessie’s hand in marriage. His knees were shaking more than when I first taught him to ride a horse all those years ago. Bessie’s old man gave him a hard time about it, but relented in the end. You’ll have to find a way to come back from the city next year. We’ll have a proper wedding, and with any luck, I’ll be welcoming my first grandchild soon after. Cara’s getting wild again. She’s talking about leaving and heading to the capital to join her dear aunt Boudica. Do me a favor and talk her out of it when you come?

  I’m afraid it’s not all pleasant news. Last week, a meteor fell on the Smith property. It came screaming in the middle of the night like something out of a nightmare. Connor and I went running out with a few of the other men to investigate and found a black stone resting in the middle of a crater. Old Holland went down to check it out, hoping to find something valuable. He claims space rocks sell for good prices to university men. However, none of our tools could damage the thing. We were trying to figure out how to move the whole thing when someone pointed out that the rock was shrinking. By the morning, the meteor was gone, leaving just a crater in the field and the scorched earth around it.

  I know you care not for the church, especially after what they did to us, but I advised Smith to call for a priest. Something like that ain’t natural, and the church does have its reasons for existing. He didn’t heed my warning. He and his boys are out there as I write this letter, trying to save what’s left of their crop. The rest of the men are trying to forget what they saw. Some say it’s better that way. Old Holland already doesn’t know anything when you ask him. Whether that’s an affectation or the sign of something gone wrong in his mind, I don’t know. I hope the whole thing just becomes nothing but a story someday, but I can’t shake the feeling that something wicked has made its way to Brannloch.

  I’ll write to you again when I have more news.

  With all the love a brother can bear,

  Connach

  Martin put the letter down, lost in thought. The meteor sounded vaguely like the dagger he held inside him now. He wondered what connection, if any, there might be, but it definitely reeked of the cosmic. And Connach’s mention of what the church had done to them—his research had revealed nothing of that sort. He knew Boudica had come from Brannloch, where her brother inherited their parents’ farm. Seemingly, they had been fairly well off, holding a couple of acres and producing enough beef to send it down to the capital. The land had fallen off since the death of Boudica’s parents, but Connach was doing all right keeping it altogether profitable.

  ‘What do you make of it?”

  Boudica was watching him, her knife paused above the carrots she was chopping. Martin had served in the colonies, and although he never spoke of those days, rumors were rampant about the dark influence that had twisted the islands into something beyond human dominion. Martin was to Boudica the closest thing to an expert she could consult.

  “I’m not sure, but I’m afraid your brother is right.”

  “Well, at least it wasn’t his field,” Boudica said, resuming her chopping. Martin could tell it bothered her behind her nonchalance.

  “Boudica…”

  “I never did like the Smiths much. Their elder daughter, Veronica, used to turn her nose up at the dolls my mom made me. Conanch beat her older brother in a race once, and she wouldn’t talk to me for a week. Serves them right.”

  “The True Creator brings balance to all, I suppose.”

  The knife thudded into the chopping board with far more force than necessary.

  “You know that’s not true, love. But maybe something else does.”

  They lapsed into silence as Boudica resumed her cooking. The Faceless Man wanted more than anything to ask about where Boudica’s feelings came from, but he knew that would lead to instant exposure to his charade. The meteor may have fallen in that northern village, but it had revealed a trap much closer to home, one he felt he was going to have to disarm sooner or later before it led to his own demise.

  Dinner arrived soon after and small talk ensued. Boudica began to talk about anything other than her family. Martin remained fairly unresponsive throughout, afraid of exposing himself. Eventually, tired of his noncommittal responses, Boudica went in with a killer.

  “So, who’s Elisia?”

  Martin coughed up the glass of water he had just taken a sip of. Boudica was looking at him, not with anger, but with a sense of justice, as if he had brought this upon himself by reading her letter.

  “What? Who?”

  “Who’s the woman whose name you’ve been muttering in your sleep? You’re not spending money, so she can’t be a prostitute.”

  “She’s… someone from my past.”

  “You didn’t call for her in your sleep before.”

  “I wasn’t on death’s door before. She’s… dead. Honest, she is. While I was in that fever dream, I saw her again. I almost thought I had forgotten about her, but there she was.”

  “Hmm,” Boudica made a disappointed noise, her finger softly tapping on her fork as if weighing the damage that could be done if it was thrust into Martin’s flesh.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  “You’ve never spoken of her before.”

  “I’ve never spoken of anything from that time before.” As far as the Faceless Man was concerned, that wasn’t a lie. He could only hope it was true for Martin.

  “The colonies, eh? I’ve always wondered what you found there. I guess I know now.” Boudica had taken the bait. The Faceless Man could count it as a successful maneuver, but he felt dirty about it.

  “I won’t defend it, but it’s done.”

  “Oh, tell me about her. What was she like? Did you two…?” Boudica made a lewd gesture with her hands.

  “No. Nothing like that.”

  “I’ve wondered if it was something wrong with me, but if you two couldn’t either then maybe—”

  Martin stood up suddenly, his chair flying back and hands clenched into fists. Boudica stopped what she was saying, her mouth still slightly open, and the hint of playful teasing that was in her eyes replaced with a tinge of fear. This was the dark side of her husband that everyone knew him by.

  “So it is still in you,” was all she said. She braced for the first fist to land. It never came.

  Martin took two deep breaths. He closed his eyes and focused on his daughter’s face. He took a deep breath in. Elisia. He let it out, the tension slowly draining from his fist. Another breath in. Elisia. And out it went, his shoulders drooping slightly as it left.

  I’m sorry.

  Martin righted the chair and made his way to the door.

  “Where are you going?” Boudica asked him. “It’s getting dark.”

  “For a walk.” He turned back to look at Boudica once. She was watching him with a look of pity. He said nothing else and walked through the door, leaving the house in silence, a new notch in the chair, but he could only pray there was nothing else done that couldn’t be repaired.

  From the house, the Faceless Man let his feet guide him as his mind remained equally lost. Everything had been going smoothly, but now, all that time, all that research, all the lines he had prepared were lost in a moment because he had let slip the one piece of his old self he still had a hold of. He played over all his conversations with Boudica in his mind. She was clearly an intelligent woman. The way she watched him always made him suspect that she knew more than she was letting on, but if she knew, why would she go along with it? It was true that she and the real Martin would fight frequently, usually triggered by Martin’s drinking, so maybe tonight was a return to form. Should he have hit her?

  No. The Faceless Man stopped walking. He was Martin now, but that didn’t mean he had to continue down the same path Martin walked. He needed to be better. He had a handle on Martin’s life now. The next step was to start to reform his image. That meant curtailing the drinking and reigning in the temper.

  Night was about to fall and the few people left around him were scurrying home. A lamplighter making his rounds eyed him suspiciously for standing there, but said nothing as he continued on to the next lamp. The Faceless Man started moving again, just letting his feet carry him as the walk would calm his nerves and give him time to think about anything but Boudica.

  He was starting to get a solid hold on the dockyard work. A few small mistakes he had been able to explain away with his disease and the drink, but with some careful observation of the fellow dockers he was now fairly confident in his ability to get through the day without exposing himself. But how to get himself closer to Crane? As a stevedore, he had no direct contact with the dockyard owner, who was far too busy to associate with the low-ranking employees, and while the stevedore position offered a better salary and steady work that the day workers didn’t have access to, there was no clear path to promotion attached to it. They could only hope for a small wage increase after years of service, or the occasional holiday bonus, dependent on business conditions and the whim of Crane.

  That left him one option—moving to the side of the dockyard enforcers. The Faceless Man made a fist with his hand and tensed up his arm, showing himself his bicep. Martin was not a weak man. He had years of experience as a soldier and knew the dockers’ way of life like the back of his hand. The only reason, as far as the Faceless Man could see, was that Martin’s drinking and personal relationships had held him back. Harrow, for example, didn’t trust him. The Faceless Man had continued that relationship by taunting him the other day, but he now realized that it was time to rebuild that relationship.

  Boudica was potentially a powder keg, and he had no idea how long it would take before it ignited, exposing his true identity. He needed to act fast to get out of this situation. In the morning, he would approach Harrow and start mending fences, expressing his interest in a position with more possibility for advancement. Harrow was a hard man, but not a bad one. He was known for his absolute loyalty to Crane and the protection he did give to the enforcers under him. Surely he would hear him out.

  Martin found himself by an unfamiliar stretch of dockside. He had wandered quite far during his musing, and night was fully upon the city. From what he gathered, these fights with Boudica never ended with an apology or reconciliation. They just wiped the slate clean in the morning. Nothing he could think of could better explain away Elisia, so that was the approach he would have to take. Walking out here until the wee hours of the day would do nothing but delay the inevitable. He checked the skyline for a few recognizable landmarks like the Cathedral spire and the palace, and started moving in the direction of his house.

  He made it just a few blocks when something started to feel off. A pressure began to settle on his heart, and something inside him began to scream to run away. He paused in the middle of the street. There was no one else there, but the faintest hint of a whistle could be heard from around the corner. The Faceless Man glanced quickly around. There were no alleys to duck in and nothing to hide behind for cover. He flexed his fingers, ready to draw the faceless dagger if the need arose. He quickly took a breath to steady his mind and resumed walking forward. The song got louder as whoever was whistling got closer.

  It was a simple tune, one popular with children over the centuries that had received numerous lyrical adaptations over the years. The Faceless Man had a version he knew involving a baker and a plowman, but he had heard children singing another version the other day about a phantom that preyed on children. The whistler continued. He was not particularly skilled, but his rhythm was consistent and as he approached the end of the second chorus, he rounded the corner and came into view.

  The man was dressed in a simple, if slightly worn, suit. He had a top hat covering his head and a poorly groomed mustache concealing his lips. All together, he looked like dozens of other men roaming the city at any one time. If not for the pressure in his chest, the Faceless Man might not have even noticed him.

  As he rounded the corner and spotted the Faceless Man, his whistling stopped. The two continued walking toward each other. The pressure in the Faceless Man’s chest continued to rise, and his fingers slowly began to close, ready to summon his dagger.

  The two got closer. Suddenly, the man in the hat flashed him a quick smile.

  “Evening, brother,” he said with a slight tip of his top hat.

  Then they were past each other. The whistling resumed. The Faceless Man strained his ears, making sure the whistling continued to get farther away and the strange man didn’t circle back for a surprise attack.

  He didn’t, and after a block or two, the man turned again, and the whistling slowly faded from his ears. The Faceless Man staggered against a wall, the pounding in his heart slowly returning to a normal beat.

  Elisia. Elisia.

  He didn’t know what he had just come across, but something told him it was no mere man on an evening stroll. There was something much darker inside, and he was lucky he got away without catching his notice. He took another look around to ensure he was still alone. The gas lamps were in full blaze, lighting the streets and warding off the terrors of the night as best they could. A clock was mounted nearby. It was already after midnight. Martin had work in the morning, and there were only a few hours left for him to rest. With a sigh, he continued on his way. It would be a silent night, but if one listened closely, they could hear the soft cries of despair that echoed out in the corners of the uncaring city.